Damn you, Sherlock Holmes
by WaywardDane
Summary: Spoiler; John and Sherlock kissed.


**Disclaimers: **

**I don't own any of the characters used in this story.**

**I'm sorry for the mistakes.**

Tuesday evening. 221b, Bakerstreet.

Sherlock Holmes was wearing his blue, silk robe. Looking like a bloody king sitting on his throne. Long, pale fingers were clasped together and raised to barely touch his full bottom lip. He kept his eyes closed; resulting in the fair lashes to fan lightly over his strutting cheekbones. Across the room was John Watson leaned back against the wall by the to his roommate John looked nothing close to calm. His eyes were narrowed, as they stared pointedly at the other man. His chest heaved erratically, as he attempted to force himself to calm down. Sherlock hadn't said anything in a while. Not since John had come with his outburst. And had now made it a point to not to talk before Sherlock had answered. It was getting harder though, as the time passed with just silence to fill the room. John had taking to stare out of the window as more time went by. The grey skies were leaking with fat drops of rain. He watched as the drops gathered on the glass. When they drifted down to the windows ledge, and then disappeared out of his field of vision as they glided down. He must have spaced out for a moment. When he turned to take up his previously activity of staring Sherlock down, he found nothing but a mark on the chair's seat.

"Sherlock!" John called and let his anger roar to the surface, as he stalked to the escaper's room. He banged on the door with his fist.

"Sherlock," John said through clenched teeth, as he yanked at the door's handle. It was locked.

"Stop. Acting. So. Childish!" He said in between each pound.

He stilled after the last blow and went to press his ear against the door, as he listened for any hint of the younger man. When no sound had aired their way out to him, he huffed tellingly and turned on his heal. He went to his own chair and plumped down.

"You can't avoid me forever," he called, so his words rang out through the room. "Before too long you're gonna get hungry and thirsty and in need for a toilet."

He shook his head when no answer came. Sherlock probably had food and drink in his room, as for the toilet he could find a creative solution. John frowned. Hopefully it wouldn't get to that.

He got up. "I am making tea. You want anything, Sherlock?"

No answer.

He sighed exasperated. "Suit yourself," he mumbled and went to the kitchen. Sherlock seemed really out of it this time and it was making John crazy. He had no idea what was going on in that head of his. Usually he had a sharp tongue and quick responses, but not this time. Not when John needed him to be Sherlock. He held the kettle under the faucet and turned the water on. This wasn't only about Sherlock. They were in this together, but the man seemed to have way of placing himself in the spotlight. Even at these situations. He sat the kettle to boil and reached up to open the cabinet and grab the big jaw with tea leafs. Maybe he wasn't fair towards the younger man; John pondered and moved to wash off his old mug from that same afternoon. It did seem like Sherlock had near zero experience in this area. He didn't want to scare Sherlock off initially by trying to corner him. He pulled a face just by the thought of him as this older man trying to snatch up some… genius virgin-ish, ridiculous handsome and very immature guy. No, Sherlock needed time and so did John. He could forget Sherlock for a while and just sit in quiet and try to sort himself out first. The water boiled in that instant and he prepared his tea, before taking a seat by the kitchen table.

Five cup of teas later, it was two in the night and he decided to go to bed. He placed the mug in the sink and walked into the living room and stopped still when he saw Sherlock. Pale moonlight was shining in from the window and Sherlock was absolutely bathed in it. He was curled up in his chair, with neck angled so he could lean his head on the backrest. His eyes shut. The blue rope had been replaced by the black dress trousers and white shirt. Sleep always looked great on Sherlock. He looked elegant even when sleeping and more peaceful. No sounds. No drooling. No nothing. If it wasn't for the deep heaving of his chest, one may even mistake him for being dead. A cold chill went down John's spine and he had a sudden need to see the bright blue eyes open and awake. He raised his hand hesitatingly and shook Sherlock's shoulder gently.

"Sherlock, wake up," John whispered softly.

Sherlock didn't even stir.

"Sherlock," he tried again a little louder.

Nothing happened.

John shook a little rougher, and he nearly fell back when Sherlock uttered a loud, dragged out snore. John watched as, Sherlock attempted to roll around in the chair. The space was small though, and before John had time to register what was going on, the sleeping man hit the floor with a thud.

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned as he sat up. He blinked rapidly as he looked disoriented around, before his eyes found John.

"John?"

John cleared his throat. "Yes. Are you hurt?" He asked, as he grabbed Sherlock's arm to help him to his feet.

Sherlock brushed him off and crawled back up in the chair. "I'm fine." John watched him yawn and as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"Right. Well, I'm off to bed. Good night, Sherlock," he said and went for the stairs. He had almost reached them too, when the other man spoke again.

"Wait, John."

That surprised John. He turned around. "Yes?"

Sherlock had his back turned to him and looked like he was glancing out on the moon.

"I have been thinking," he said slowly.

"Alright, thinking about what?" John asked when he didn't elaborate further. His heart literally felt like it was stuck in his throat, as he takes a step forward.

Sherlock was silent for a while and John was about to think that was it, but then he talked again.

"About us," he said.

Yup, he was gonna puke his heart out. Was that even possible? Right, no it wasn't.

"Yes?" John croaked. He couldn't say more even if he wanted to.

Sherlock turned around. One side hidden in shadows and the other illuminated by pale light.

"I'm not good at that kinda stuff," he said. His eyes were averted to the floor.

"You said you would like us to try."

It wasn't a question per say. Still, John found himself nodding. "Yes, and I'd still like that, but it depends on what you want."  
"I know that," he said and for the first time through the day, he raised his head to look John in the eyes.

"I fear that I may disappoint your expectations of me."

John nodded and walked all the way over to him and sat on the coffee table.

"I don't really expect anything, Sherlock. I-" He haltered and took his time finding the right words.

"Honestly, I have no idea where this," He said, as he gestured between them with a hand, "-Is gonna bring us. -But when we kissed the other day. Something felt right and I'm not gonna deny, that it's weird, but… I think it's worth giving a try."

"It was a drunken kiss, though." Sherlock said, and looked John steadily in the eyes. "We're not even sure if it meant anything or if it was just a onetime thing."

John's mouth did certainly not shape into a surprised little 'O' at that. Nope. Okay maybe it did.

"Oh…" John said, as he tried to comprehend what Sherlock just said.

"Maybe we should try again, is what I'm saying," he said, when John didn't answer.

John nodded, as he tried to swallow around the giant lump in his throat. Sherlock smirked and leaned in to press his lips against Johns. And yes magic happened again, as well as it did the first time around. The black haired man moved his lips more insisting, when John didn't do much. So he leaned in and let his hands fall to his hair, as he deepened the kiss. It was Sherlock to pull away first. His cheeks slight heated, hair rumbled and lips flushed red. He looked so human that way.

"I think it's safe to say that was a success." Sherlock said and stood.

"I am going to bed now. See you in the morning." And with that he disappeared back to his bedroom.

John felt dizzy when he stood up himself and had to will his wobbly legs to carry him up the stairs to his bedroom, where he collapsed on the bed. Something felt like all that was an act. Feeling all insecure and all. With the kiss he had had the upper hand.

John huffed out a dry chuckle. "Damn you, Sherlock Holmes," he said out in the dark and he swear he could hear a faint chuckle.

The end.


End file.
